cultural exposure
by theAsh0
Summary: plants love music, the sound of their friends talking. And, apparently, the ballet.


Rumlow was kept in an interrogation room for well over a week after his hospital release. Of course, he told them _nothing_. No Hydra bases, plans, names. No intel at all. What more could they do to him anyway? He'd lost nearly all sense of touch; and with it the ability to feel pain. His face and body mangled beyond recognition. So, they could get handsy. They could beat him and threaten him all they wanted. He just laughed it off, and reminded them he was supposed to have rights too.

That didn't seem to bother them half as much as his unwillingness to answer their questions. It didn't surprise Brock Rumlow one bit. Shield and Hydra were just as bad as the other; they'd proved it more true with their every act. To him, they could fuck themselves up and down with their 'but we are the good guys' rethoric. It didn't mean a damn thing. They had yet to surprise him but an inch. Gaslighting, sleep deprivation, threats… all they'd done so far was prove that Hydra was just the more efficient of the pair.

So, absolutely _zero_ surprises.

Until one day Fury walked into his cell, had his hands cuffed behind him, and then declared with the usual amount of abrasive curtness: "we're going on a little trip. Cultural exposure, or something."

That didn't mean Borck let any of his surprise show on his face; a feat only made simpler by the ample new scarring there. And if he was somewhat confused on his first few steps; well, that was hidden by the pair of Shield thugs shoving him along a lot harder than was necessary for the bound cripple he had become.

The confusion had almost melted away when Brock realised they were heading into the basement, but it returned in full when they entered what must have been the base's primary Gym. A smooth hardwood floor reflected the overhead lights, and the far wall consisted of top to floor mirrors. On the left side, exercise bikes and equipment where pushed to the far wall, clearing nearly the entire floor.

Fury took a few steps toward the room's center, then turned with an unneeded amount of flare of his black trenchcoat, and then eyed Rumlow with a cock of that single eyebrow. Fury apparently found Brock's dirty and bloodied tee lacking, but Fury finally let his gaze rest on shoes. They'd taken his combat bots, of course. Provided him with some pathetic loafers. Fury, after a moment of pensive ey-contact, shrugged. "You'll manage."

If the entire set-up was confusing now, it got downright _weird_ when the room came to life with a soft murmur of violins. Nearly imperceptible at first, then somewhat louder as someone turned up the volume just as the cello's came in to strengthen those first tentative notes. Tsjaikovski, his mind provided from the dregs of his memory. Not one of the concerts he had at home on outdated cd's, but a famous one. Then the harp and the oboe joined and Rumlow recognised Swan Lake.

A first sliver of worry entered Brock's gut. He had never had much of a live outside Shield that was not Hydra. But, he'd had his music at least. Those he'd ever told he enjoyed the classics thought him bland and old-fashioned. But it'd only made him feel superior when he listened to concerts at night with a beer in hand. Modern music just didn't have this level of drama and distinction.

At first he'd figured Shield had at least done their homework, but then a figure straightened from behind a treadmill, looking down on what must have been the room's sound system. A man, obvious, even in tight black leggings, and a ridiculous little pony tail bobbing up with his motion. Then, he put his hand on his hips, and yes; those big shoulders sticking from a tank-top did tone down those stupid effeminite.. what? Were that even legging? Tights might be more apt.

But then the figure turned, and the light reflected off of his left arm all wrong and gleaming and Brock Rumlow laughed. Laughed so hard, because the man wasn't a man at all.

"Ooh!" Rumlow finally calmed down, nearly thankful to the pair of goons still holding him up by the elbows. He'd have doubled up from his near hysterical fit, if he could have, and him as bad off as he was, with his hands cuffed behind him.. well; whatever. "Ooh. this is rich! You want to let the Asset question me, Fury? Don't you know, there's a reason we only ever set him on kill on sight missions at the end."

Fury snorted, then moved over to lean against one of the closest treadmills, crossing his arms and frowning towards the approaching figure with trepidation that might not have been all fake. "You think I haven't read his last assessments? Seriously, I live in the bureaucratic file cabinets of reports. What did that Hydra psychiatrists call it? Vegetables with a slice of killing spree?"

_It_ had strode calmly over, an odd grace to its step Brock had never noticed there before. Possibly to the ridiculous shoes it was wearing. Ballet slippers. What was _it_ thinking? No scratch that. Brock knew exactly what _it_ thought: absolutely nothing. Probably some form of muscle memory that made it step that way.

But then it came over to the side, taking up the third corner of a perfect triangle between the three of them, and slightly cocked its head with an expression there that might have, if Rumlow didn't know better, be mistaken for a smile. And then it just stood there frozen with that expression while Fury gestured for the thugs to remove the handcuffs.

Brock was beyond confused. "I'm not afraid to die you know. And that _thing_, when it starts hitting something, doesn't stop until whatever it's flattening is a bleeding burger. You're actually doing me a favor..?"

"Oh, no." Fury promised, with a minute smile of his own. "You misunderstand. The Winter Soldier has requested to _dance_ with you." uncrossing his arms, the one-eyed man ran his palms over his raincoat; unneeded and probably overly hot indoors. "He promised not to do anything more stressful than that. Definitively no burger beating."

"Are you fucking serious?" Brock barked. "I have zero interest in your prissy girl's ballet. And I have even less interest in interacting with your brain-dead pet assassin slash plant."

The Asset slowly cocked its head to the other side. "It's the _best_ bonding experience. Besides, I love to dance, you love classical music. It's the best of both worlds, really."

Fury did a double-take, which was totally over the top. "That's him insulting you, Bucky. You're allowed to get angry at him insulting you."

_It _did something very disturbing then, and very wrong . Something that somehow showed all his perfect, century-old teeth. "Oh, you know us plants. We don't really care what you say to us. As long as you keep talking." Then the Asset raised to the tips of its toes and did a graceful three-sixty turn, one leg curling up to the side, foot turned back and away and impossibly high. A stop, down on both feet, and one real, flesh hand extended.

Brock stared. When his mouth finally caught up with this obscene fairy-wonderland, he bit out: "I'm not going to dance with you, you freak."

Brock should have expected it; had seen in happen from afar and up close many times, it still took him by surprise, when it moved. The Asset was just that fast; far faster than anything human could ever hope to be. Far faster than Brock Romlow could ever hope to be; despite years of rigorous training. It still galled Brock, watching it move. But now, when it grabbed him with one arm around his waist, and spun him wild with a hard bump of a flesh biceps, it was the first time it completely jarred him. Took him off his feet until Brock didn't know which way was what, and he was forced to lean into that strong chest and let those arms support him.

Then the disorientation fell away to outrage, and Brock's considerable battle-experience kicked in. his good hand, which had been forced to grab onto the material of the tank-top tightened to a fist as he brought up his knee with the intended target of the Asset's balls.

It never connected. Why did that even surprise Rumlow? He'd been a decent fighter; a warrior in his own right, only three weeks ago. But now he was a cripple, standing on his last legs with no sleep and hardly any rest, against something that had an unfair advantage of genetic tampering. It just turned, swerved and lifted; this time bringing Rumlow high; far over head. Then it started pirouetting; one, twice,. thrice..

It sped up and Brock lost count, as his surroundings turned into a blur. Things moved, top-to-bottom; up-to down, and when the floor touched with his feet, still turning, twisting and somehow feeling uneven, Brock desperately held to the last live-line he had, even if it was the Asset's hand. Then, that too was gone, and Rumlow stumbled to the ground hard; both knees hitting the boards with an audible clunk. Small mercies he did not feel such pain anymore, but the vertigo was real enough.

The first thing Rumlow realised, as he kneeled on the floor with both palms pressed against wood, was that Fury was laughing at him. "Oh, oh; Agent Rumlow. I was going to say, you do have the attitude for one prissy little Prima Donna. But grace? Seriously? Zero points for that, my friend."

Brock sneered. "Having fun with the cripple, aya? You Shield like to pretend to be the good guys, but you're just as bad as Hydra, when it comes down to it."

Fury frowned, one unmarred eyebrow raised. "Maybe Brock. However, I am going to go home now, have a nice dinner, and get a good night's sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, have a _lovely_ time."

Brock sputtered, trying to regain his feet, trying not to feel a sliver of fear when the Asset put in, in an almost friendly voice: "or, you can take an extra day? Come back the day after tomorrow? I have enough music to last us into next week."

Fury laughed, already moving towards the door with his two goons. "That's nice. But that really would make us as bad as Hydra. Have fun, Bucky. Don't kill him."

The Asset clicked his tongue at that, and actually had the audacity to try and help Brock to his feet. Rumlow snarled. "Don't touch me." then fought himself up; pushing his ruined body hard. "You,.." a swallow with his parched throat. "I can see what this is. was it you that told them I liked classical music? You mean to overstimulate me, take away my enjoyment of it?"

"Is that what this is?" the Asset, that apparently went by Bucky now shrugged, arms wide in a helpless gesture. "I can't tell. I loved the ballet, always loved it." then it frowns. "Or maybe that was swing dancing? Well, whatever. One of my Russian overseers really, _really_ loved the ballet. So now I'm quite good at it. Lots of practice. I don't think I got overstimulated. Although it was lots and lots of practice. Bleeding feet practice, you know. I apparently held the record of pirouettes at one point."

"Don't.." Brock starts, then stalls, trying to think up a better strategy. His outstretched arm, hand warding, would not slow the Asset down. His words, perhaps. Maybe. "Stop this, Asset." he tried in a commanding voice.

It actually looked happy. "Do you think we could break the record together? I forget the exact number to shoot for. But you know, those ballet guys are crazy as fuck, so we should probably just go at it until we pass out, and I'll ask Steve to look up the number online to see if we've made it tomorrow."

"I'll fucking throw up." Brock promised. Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness asked. "Why are you doing this?"

"You know." It smiled again, a bit weaker than before. "You're right you know. I'm fucking crazy. A liability in the field. Not even safe to leave this base. But," and it grinned wide now; sharp canines gleaming. "I can still dance like a fucking pro."

"If you leave with me now…" Brock swallowed down bile, willed his voice to steady. "If you break me out, and come in with me, I'm sure Hydra will be lenient…"

"But why would I do that?" it cut him off by reaching out, pulled him close. Disgusting _thing_. "Shield and Hydra are pretty much the same, as you said. Except for me, all my friends are here."

"You don't have friends. You're a machine. A thing . You don't.."

"Plant, remember?" A firm voice, though devoid of any feeling. Any anger. It lifted him off his feet and started to turn again, slowly. Then paused and cocked his head, listening for the music; the slow-step of the violin's main theme "I love this part. Talking and music, after all. Us plants _love_ that, right? My friends already talk to me plenty. Come on, let's spin."

Rumlow's acquiescence was hardly needed. The Asset was simply that strong; lifting him to spin between its hands, then doing its own turns without a chance for Brock to escape. Turn-once, turn-twice, music in adagio harmonizing with their moves perfectly, for all Brock's unwillingness. Turn, turn, and again till all strength seemed to have left the man and all he could do was hold on. Brock could hardly even hear that voice in his ear. "Don't worry; I wont get angry if you hurl. Plants don't get angry."


End file.
